Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (32 page)

“Enough!” The shaking stopped, but he heard Oswulf chuckle as he moved away.

He had to work to open his eyes, for they were sticky with sleep. The first thing he noted was that Lissa was no longer beside him. Next came the murmur of low voices and the smell of cooking meat. His stomach growled loudly enough that at least one of his companions heard it.

“Here. This should silence that beast in your gut.” Turold waited for him to sit up before handing him one of their two wooden bowls. “There is enough for another helping, but that is the last of it. Bryda is sorry there was naught else to put in it except the meat, but I thought it quite filling, myself.” He grinned. “I have eaten worse, and gotten by on less.”

“Já, as have I.” He ate the watery stuff like one starved, finishing that portion and then the other before he was satisfied.

Handing the empty bowl to Bryda, he let his gaze rove. Over the past few days, his little flock had become a ragged bunch with pinched faces and dark crescents beneath their eyes. He did not need a looking glass to know he fared no better, but it could not be helped. His heart admired their courage. He had asked much from them—and would have to ask more—but complaints were few and spirits high. He had been with victorious soldiers less sanguine. True fighters they were, as fine as any among his own hardy people. He was proud of them.

Sindre sat with his foot stuck out in front of him, a new knitbone poultice around the ankle. The night’s forced march, through dark, uneven terrain resulting in many a stumble, had not been good for the injury. The joint had swelled again, but when asked, his uncle swore it was of no consequence. Alwin perched cross-legged beside him, Oswulf’s axe in his hand. Sindre was explaining the fine points of the weapon’s construction. The boy’s tired little face was rapt, and he fairly glowed with pleasure beneath the attention.

Bryda, who still battled a queasy stomach each morn, busied herself around the fire. Together with Turold, she started to sing a Saxon drinking song, while the skáld polished his ring shirt. Now and again, their blended voices rose in a rousing refrain. Oswulf, armed with bow and arrows, showed himself from time to time on his rounds of the camp, but spent much his watch at the top of the far rise, watching their back trail.

Brandr suddenly realized Lissa was missing, and spoke to no one in particular. “Where is my thrall?”

“I am here.” She stepped from behind him to show him the large quantity of berries she carried in a fold of her cyrtel. He gladly accepted the handful she proffered. Pointing to a sunny spot beyond the perimeter of the camp, she said, “The bushes grow just there. I had to fight the insects for the fruit, but there is enough for all.”

He studied her as he munched. The area around the scrapes on her face was slightly swollen, but showed no sign of becoming putrid. The bright red balanced the nearly faded yellow of the previous bruising from the outlaws. “The new colors on your face blend well with the old.”

Startled, she stared at him, then giggled as she realized his meaning. “I thank you, kind sir, for those encouraging words. It is always wise to complement a woman on her beauty.”

He grinned. “Já, so I thought. You are well?”

“Yes. I am told you had to carry me here from the hill. I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “You were exhausted, and I think, stunned by your fall. It was no trouble.” He stood up and raised his voice. “Pack up! We leave when I return.”

Ignoring the chorus of benign groans and Sindre’s muffled oath, he kissed Lissa’s cheek, caught up a water skin and took himself off, needing to refresh himself.

Making due south, he pushed them hard, taking advantage of the long hours of gloaming, not stopping until after nightfall. This time they made no fire, but chewed cold, tough slices of meat and what remained of the berries. He parceled the night watch between Sindre, Turold, Oswulf and himself, hoping in this manner to insure they all got enough rest.

At first light, they were again on the march, still weary, but determined. Because Turold knew well his way in these lands, he gave the skáld the lead, while he brought up the rear. While he walked, he tallied the days. If his count was correct, this morn was the thirteenth since their flight from Yriclea.

Much had happened—and more had changed—during that time. His gaze focused on Sindre and the child who skipped along beside him, chattering like a magpie. Most amazed was he at the difference in his uncle, especially as evidenced by how he had carried the child through the night, protecting and watching over him. Before the raid on Yriclea, such tolerance would have been unimaginable. Had Sindre come across the youngling then, he would simply have taken off his head with Frithr.

Never, since the death of his wife, had Sindre taken to another person as he had to Alwin. He behaved with the boy almost as if he was a son. Indulgent and patient, he answered Alwin’s endless questions, instructing him in all things he wished to know. In turn, Alwin nigh worshipped him.

Sindre’s response to Lissa had changed, as well. His earlier declaration that she belonged with them showed how far he had come in accepting her. It was enough to make a man believe in miracles.

Within himself, the change was no less profound, though perhaps not so outwardly visible. The slender woman who hiked ahead of him, enjoying the unexplored landscape, had given him her love with a childlike trust. It was increasingly apparent she knew her place in his life—and já, in his heart—was secure. Had anyone asked, when he left Ljotness to go i-víking, if there was a chance a young thrall would be safe offering aught to him but total obedience, he would not have wasted breath to answer, so witless would he have considered the question. Yet, she had become the predator, and his heart the willing prey.

As if she sensed his thoughts were of her, she threw him a glance, maddeningly provocative, from over her shoulder. As always, his body responded to the guilelessly seductive action. He growled to let her know his reprisal was not set aside, but only deferred to a more appropriate moment. A sassy giggle floated back to him on the breeze.

Mirth at her audacity tweaked the corners of his mouth. Impudent, she was, and he was absurdly indulgent to allow it. He had not yet told her he loved her, for he had only admitted it to himself during the long night-march of the flight from Andeferas. So far gone in lust and love was he that his days, and oft his nights as well, were disrupted with musings on how he might make her his wife.

Not once in his life had he bothered to consider what he would prefer in a spouse if given a choice. He would decide on a woman, approach her father with his father, and a match would be made if all were agreed on its merits. Love would not be a consideration, but Lissa fulfilled hopes, dreams and desires he had not known he had.

Inwardly, he winced. The uproar he would face when he made the announcement to his family would be heard from one end of the kingdom to the other. He might well face shaming by his mother, who remained imperious in her demand he marry a wealthy wife, preferably the daughter of another jarl. His father would likely renounce his paternity, hurl him bodily out of Ljotness, and tell him to stay gone. Even his brothers, though they loved him and would eventually support his decision, would consider him hopelessly wandering within the dominion of a mind fire. He believed himself as courageous as any man, but the thought of sending Sindre home
alone
had crossed his mind repeatedly in recent days.

His reverie was interrupted when Turold halted and motioned him forward. “We will soon reach the road that forms the eastern boundary of the wedge of land we have traveled. A half-day’s walk beyond it we will come to Basingum, which lies within a shallow valley, watered by a river. It is my thought we should wait an extra day to ford this river, for our clothing has not yet fully dried from the last crossing. The market is held on the morrow, and we are in need of food. I would suggest we make camp a safe distance from town, send someone to purchase supplies, and wait until the following day to continue our journey. Think you this would be safe?”

“I do not know, but my instinct belies it. We have wasted no time, but if the Yriclea first marshal decides to travel by river to Basingum—” he sent a sidewise glance to Turold, “which is what I would do—he will arrive there first. He knows the number of our party, and that we have with us two females and a child. His man, Wat, saw all of us—and our faces—during the fight. If he comes there ahead of us, and I think we must accept he will, it might be impossible to avoid discovery.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Explain.”

“We could send Bryda and Lissa. If both wear their headrails close, keep their heads lowered, and pay attention to what is around them, they will draw little or no attention. It is common for two or three women to go to the market and shop together, while their men take care of other business. No one would think it unusual for the two to be unescorted, and it is safe enough. The local thegn has an eye for the coin the market brings into his coffers and for that reason, insures his hearth companions guard against thieves and protect those who shop, especially the women.

“Basingum is not a large town, but it is busy on market days. The women would be naught but two more shoppers among a bustling crowd. Even if the first marshal has men on the lookout, it is unlikely they would notice two women who mind their own business. They would be more likely to look for me, or for Oswulf and Bryda.”

“There is merit in this plan, but the risk is great. We cannot go with them, and therefore cannot protect them. If they are identified, they will be taken. Still, it is truth we have need of food and other supplies. I will think on this.”

Turold nodded. “There is time, and the others may offer a better plan. We will talk more this eve.”

As the skáld had said, they came shortly to the eastern edge of the ‘wedge of roads’ through which they had traveled since fording the River Afen. The passage was little more than a track through the downlands, but in the distance, travelers approached from the south.

Brandr hastened them across, where they lost themselves among the hills on the other side.

The sun was evenly nigh Undorn and Mithr Aptann, when not far ahead there appeared a grouping of three thatch-roofed cottages, built beside a stream. On the far side were fields.

He halted them in the safety of a copse of oaks overlooking the tiny hamlet. “All of them work in the fields, even the women. They have the children and an old one with them. Lissa, see you what I see, thrall?”

Lissa scanned the scene. “I see much, but naught unusual.”

He stepped to stretch his arm over her shoulder so her gaze could follow where his finger pointed. “There. A line between two trees.” He smiled down at her. “Women’s clothing! Enough for you and Bryda.” He turned to Turold. “Come, skáld. The cottages lie between us and the fields, thus providing cover. We will liberate the items from their owners. Sindre. Oswulf. Keep watch.”

He had taken but two steps, Turold at his side, when Lissa and Bryda spoke as one. “Stop!”

He turned. Both women glowered at him.

“You object?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Lissa answered. “It is stealing.”

He blinked. The excitement at obtaining less ragged—
dry
—clothes for her faded. “I do not understand. You have need of the clothes.”

“So do those who own them.”

Now he was the one frowning. “Then they can buy more.”

“I do not want stolen clothes, Brandr.”

“Nor do I,” said Bryda.

“You have greater need of them, Bryda, than does Lissa. What you wear is so worn it nigh falls off you. Do you enjoy wearing rags?”

“We prefer to buy what we need.”

Baffled, he glanced at the others. Sindre looked as confused as he felt at this example of feminine obstinacy. Alwin’s gaze, full of curiosity, bounced back and forth between them. Oswulf, arms crossed over his chest, wore a smug grin, while Turold’s expression played back and forth between pensive and amused.

“You need clothes.” Brandr said. “I will get them for you.”

He started off again, toward the cottages.

“We will not wear them,” Lissa said.

He turned so quickly Turold nigh ran into him, and stalked back to face her. He infused his voice with stony command. “You are my thrall. You will wear what I tell you to wear!”

“Not unless you pay for them.”

“Lissa!”

“No!”

He huffed, defeated, and looked to his fellow males for help.

Oswulf’s shoulders shook, but his voice was even enough. “Have you coin, leóf?”

“Já.”

“Then perhaps,” Turold said, the glint in his eye bright, “it would be best to agree to leave payment behind, else we will still be arguing when the sun goes down.”

Sindre snorted. “Women! They are never satisfied. You had best do as they say, Músa.” He turned away, but said in an aside, loudly enough for all to hear, “I told you to beat her!”

Brandr knew when to yield the battle. From his tunic, he took the bag of silver dirhams Karl had left him. He knelt to set a coin on a nearby rock and with his sax, cut it into many slivers. He dropped all but one back into the bag.

“Two, Brandr.”

“Lissa, one piece is enough to buy new fabric for the whole hamlet!”

“Two. The second will pay for the trip into town to buy the new fabric, plus extra food as compensation for the inconvenience of having to sew new clothes. It is what I wish, and you can afford it.”

Her lips curved in a smile he felt all the way to his toes, and almost made him forget why they bickered, but the look in her golden brown eyes was adamant.

“By the eight legs of Sleipnir!” He ground his teeth, but fished out a second sliver. “Never, thrall, will I take you i-víking! You would beggar us before we began. Sindre, work your way south around the hamlet. Wait for us across the stream over yonder hill. Turold, with me.”

He stalked toward the cottages.

The skáld chuckled as he loped beside him. “Well done, Northman!”

His muttered response had Turold laughing outright.